


The Hands that Thieve

by Saphie3243



Series: Sympathy for the Devil [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Consensual Sex, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Oh god here we go again., Other, References to Assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29593425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphie3243/pseuds/Saphie3243
Summary: It hurt.She hurt.What do you do when it all hurts too much? What do you do when you can’t fix it?She knew exactly what to do.Nesta opened a bottle of whiskey, not even bothering to look for a glass. Her mother taught her this, too.
Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Series: Sympathy for the Devil [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928338
Comments: 13
Kudos: 69





	1. Welcome Back, Friend

**Author's Note:**

> This is part two to sympathy for the devil.

Nesta had long found that stumbling home at 4 in the morning from a bar was infinitely easier when you have someone to lean your weight into - even if you are both equally shit-faced. That’s part of the reason that she started fucking random men from bars. She knew somewhere in her mind that treating Velaris’ men as canes that double as a dildos was probably morally reprehensible. 

But so was murder. And everyone congratulated her for  _ that.  _

“Sick Fae Bastards,” she muttered, but through the mulled wine, it came out as “sk f bsstrds.” It’s utter incomprehensibility worked in her favor. Her current cane/dildo had no idea what she said and therefore didn’t get offended. 

_ That looks fun.  _

That voice caught her attention. She knew it. She could never forget it. But it couldn’t be here, could it? 

A long, boney claw lightly dragged itself through her hair. 

_ I missed you child. _

Nesta whirled around, suddenly sober. Her partner, unfortunately, was less so, and with his support removed so suddenly, hit the ground with a nasty, wet thunk. She didn’t so much as look down as her eyes fixed on a hazy figure in the darkness. 

The blurry figure took form, condensing itself to the shape of a large man with expansive black wings and chin-length hair.

“Funny,” Nesta smirked as Bryaxis became a horrific imitation of Cassian. The shape was right, but the hollowed out eternal darkness for eyes and cheshire grin of jagged teeth were a dead giveaway. 

“I thought you’d enjoy it,” it gestured to the form it had chosen. Even it’s voice sounded like Cassian. Well, Cassian if he spoke by sucking air in versus blowing air out. 

“I thought you were going to see the world.” 

“Saw it,” it walked up, and placed a hand on her cheek. Bryaxis had always been a little touchy with her, from that first meeting in the library. “Missed you.” 

“Thank you?” Nesta was always unsure how to feel about Bryaxis. Logically, she knew she should fear it. It was, objectively, horrifying. From the eyes to the teeth to the voice, to the grinding noises it made when it was gnawing on the flesh of the living. But for some reason, she had always found it… fine, even a little comforting. Maybe that was because when she first met it, running for her life in a library, it coiled around her without the threat of malice and even promised to not kill her sister. 

The not-Cassian face drew close to her, inhaling her breath deeply. “Wine.”

“Do you want some?” It’s head rotated a solid 115 degrees towards its shoulder, considering the question. Nesta took that as a yes. “C’mon, I have some at my place,” she turned around toward her apartment, almost tripping over the stranger still on the ground. Bryaxis caught her. 

“Careful,” it warned, and proceeded to help her home. 

Bryaxis was quiet as she undid all 4 locks on her apartment door, and equally quiet when she latched them again. Nesta could see how Bryaxis filled the room, even as its form did not change, brushing that infernal darkness across every surface, every crevice, taking every detail in. 

"You death-gods and your hovels"

Nesta rolled her eyes and went over to the ice-box, pulling out a bottle of blood-red wine. She began rooting around for her corkscrew, "I don't have any glasses so you'll have to drink from the bottle." 

"I usually drink from the flesh." 

"So you don't mind, then?" Nesta finally found the corkscrew, not in the kitchen, but in her bathroom, next to the tub along with two more empty bottles.  _ That’s right. _ It had taken two additional bottles to get her to stay in the tub long enough to get clean, to be drunk enough to no longer feel her surroundings. 

The cork came out with a loud pop, louder than usual. Nesta took a quick swig and handed the bottle to her guest. Not-Cassian’s hand dwarfed hers as it took the wine. “It has been an age since I was  _ offered  _ a drink,” it said, taking a short sip, then immediately a longer one. Nesta plopped herself down on the bed. She was still drunk. Her momentary clarity fogging up again as the initial surprise of her guest wore off. 

She knew she had questions. The last time she saw this monster it had joined the Carver and Stryga in calling her many names, many titles. One it called her now. Death-God. 

Her terrible silver power churned and burned at the thought. Her well, emptied so many months ago, now filled to brim again. Where the power came from, she didn’t know. It just filled in. This power was different now. It didn’t crash the way it used to, desperate to escape back home. Now it would bubble and boil, excited to be used, to be directed. She never thought it would be harder to control than those first months she battled it.

Too happy? The power wanted to play. 

Too angry? The power wanted to destroy. 

Too sad? The power wanted to protect. 

  
  


Alcohol helped. Being drunk drowned the girl screaming in her head. Bars helped. The music and crowds muffled the memories that tore her apart. Sex helped. It kept the loneliness at bay and her bed warm through the cold nights. 

Useful now that winter was in full swing. 

Nesta let herself fall back, let her back hit the mattress. “Your bed reeks.” Not-Cassian laid down next to her, sprawling out in all of his Illyrian glory. 

She threw an arm over her eyes. “Change shape if you are going to do that.” 

“Why?” She felt the bed creak, but didn’t dare move. “Aren’t you happy to see your ma-” A long whiff. Bryaxis was smelling her more closely. Before she knew it, her arms were wrenched back, pinned over her head. Not-Cassian’s knees were on either side of her waist. Bryaxis’s face got so very close. 

The form changed, losing its denseness, its color. Once again a black cloud of claws and teeth surrounded her, pressing down on her, swallowing her whole. She couldn’t even find it in her to try and struggle as every surface of her skin was skimmed over. But it didn’t last long. Only a moment and Bryaxis pulled away, holding her down but barely touching her. 

_ You severed the mating bond. _

The monster actually sounded in awe of her. 

Nesta just looked up at the rows and rows of teeth over her face. Bored and numb and wishing the monster would just shred her like it did those ravens. Let her physical form reflect the tattered shreds of whatever was left of her soul. 

But it didn’t. It just held her. So finally, she gave it a response. “Yeah, and?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up? I read ACOSF, loved it, and realized that for all the things that lined up with my Nesta and cannon Nesta, there were a thousand other things that were different.  
> So here I am, writing a sequel. that will heavily diverge from cannon. I'm, uh, writing other stuff, so this will probably not update more than weekly. 
> 
> Like last time, I'll add tags as they are relevant. Unlike last time, this will be an explicit fic. 
> 
> Yes, the intro chapter is cribbed from my bryaxis snippet because I like it as a mood-setter.


	2. Frantic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family brunch is as awkward as ever, Nesta goes out.

“I don’t get it,” Feyre sighed over breakfast. 

“Don’t get what?” Elain asked. 

Cassian kept his attention on his eggs. Weekly family brunch was meant to be an opportunity for them to all be together as their work and reconstruction took up more and more of their time. A tradition from before Amaranthra that Cassian was happy to see come back now. Except… 

“Why does she need to live _there_?” Feyre leaned her hand into her cheek. 

Except now every brunch included a conversation about Nesta Archeron and her current choices. First it was complaints about her sleeping through brunch, or purposefully not coming home in time for it. Then the conversations degraded into _why_ Nesta wasn’t at brunch, and what she was doing instead. And who she was doing it with. When she moved out, there was a full discussion on that, too. Was it good for her? Was it bad? Amren made an excellent point that the townhouse was crowded already, and having her own space was probably needed.

Cassian hoped it would be the last of the Nesta-talk for a while. She wasn’t around all the time anymore, so her exploits wouldn’t be front and center anymore. 

But then Feyre tried to visit her yesterday. Tried, but Nesta wouldn’t open the door for her to get in. Between that and the sorry state of her building, concern began to grow over Nesta’s need to live in the closest facsimile of slums Velaris had. “She could live anywhere in the city, why a building that doesn’t even have proper fae-lights?” 

“Because it’s closer to the bars,” Rhys muttered under his breath. 

It was… probably true. It was common knowledge the eldest Archeron could be found at any manner of seedy taverns on a nightly basis, drinking herself stupid and luring home any male that seemed passable. 

His ribs itched. Uncomfortable and empty. It took all his control to not start stratching at his chest, to try and sooth it. It always happened when they talked about Nesta. It was part of the reason he hated it so much. They had gotten so close during the war. The weeks in the House, snarking around each other, then the nights in her tent. The declaration in the final battle… 

He cleared the memory from his head before it tore open old wounds.

Nesta didn’t want him. She made that abundantly clear. Whatever feelings she may have had once, whatever she may have now, they were irrelevant. **_Leave_ ** _, Cassian._ It was that cold indifference that got him. The heat he so clearly remembered between them, always two-sided, was gone. No embarrassment or desperation to hide feelings, just annoyance as she slammed her bedroom door in his face. 

She smelled like sex and someone else. 

That itchy feeling returned when he recalled that morning. He hadn’t tried to see her again after that. He didn’t begrudge her the trysts. Or the alcohol. It takes time to come back from war, especially your first. Mother knows it took him _years_ to come back from his first slaughter. And he was trained for it. 

“She lives where she lives, girl. Just let her be,” Amren took a distasteful bite of egg and slammed down a glass of wine to mask the taste. Glaring at what remained on her plate. Food was still hard for her. 

“Are you sure-” 

“Nesta will do what Nesta does,” Elain’s dismissal was still startling. She seemed even less enthused to discuss her sister than Cassian. Had been for months. But it seemed fitting. Nesta had done everything in her power to provide Elain privacy during her grief. Of course Elain would do the same for her sister. 

But it still felt like more. 

Azriel finally changed the topic for them. He nodded to Cass, “How is Illyria settling?” 

Cass groaned, yet another hard topic. “They aren’t. Too many males were lost and the ones that remain are angry.” 

3 out of every 4 days was spent in those mountains now, trying to get the camp-lords to calm down. When he wasn’t silencing discontent with the warriors, he was trying to find ways to provide for the females. So many lost fathers, husbands, elder brothers, and a female without a provider was in a dangerous spot. Forget training them, even keeping them fed and clothed was a full-time challenge. 

“Please no work at brunch,” Mor requested. “Can’t we talk about anything pleasant once in a while?” 

“My violas are blooming nicely,” Elain offered, taking the conversation over to her gentle hobbies and away from the complexities that clouded their lives. 

* * *

“Add eggs to the list of foods that are unacceptable.” 

“Un _egg_ ceptable,” Nesta said under her breath, picking apart her muffin. 

Amren raised an eyebrow as she sat on her bed, “What was that?” 

“Nothing. So no eggs?” Nesta leaned back in her friend’s fluffy reading chair. Amren’s brickwork apartment was almost as messy as her own. Well, less messy and more disorganized. Varian’s visits kept the dirty dishes and grime at bay. 

“No eggs.” 

“No eggs, dairy, red apples, peas, broccoli, fish, red meat, chicken, carrots, pies with ‘squishy’ filling, casseroles, porridge, oatmeal… are you sure you are an extra-dimensional assassin and not a toddler?” 

A pillow hit Nesta square in the face for that comment. A pillow and not a spike of golden power. It was thrown as hard as Amren could manage and Nesta still could have dodged it if she bothered to focus. Because Amren wasn’t an extra-dimensional assassin anymore. She was a regular high-fae, less powerful than anyone else now. 

Nesta forced a sardonic smirk, pushing pity as far from her features as she could manage. 

“They are talking about you again,” Amren warned. “Feyre seems troubled by your new apartment.” 

Nesta rolled her eyes and placed a piece of muffin in her mouth. She knew it was good. It had to be, it came from the townhouse. But the taste was ash in her mouth. She took a sip of tea to wash it down and replaced her cup. “They’d be talking about me even if my apartment didn’t have faded paint.” 

“Yes, they would,” her friend conceded. “I should thank you for that. Your audacity keeps them from talking about me.” The smile didn’t reach her now-dull eyes. 

“I’ll tell my next partner that. ‘Be honored, your orgasm is shielding _the_ Amren from gossip’”. 

“You actually let them come?” Of all the people that Nesta knew, Amren was the only one who truly did not care who she took to bed and why. 15 millennia of haphazard, emotionless fucking prevented her from being able to judge even if she did find it distasteful. 

Nesta shrugged, “As long as I do.” She nodded to the book next to her, “What are you reading?”

She picked it up and read the title out loud, “Prisoners, Weavers, and Other Aberrations.” 

Nesta snorted, “Your ego’s gotten too big if you’ve stooped to reading about yourself.” 

“Very funny, but I’m not reading the chapter about _me._ I’m trying to figure out where Bryaxis went.” 

_My apartment for a couple days and then out to_ explore _again._ “Is it causing trouble?”

“Not really, but we’d like to know where it is just in case. As long as it’s free it’s a liability.” 

“Well that book isn’t going to tell you anything you don’t already know. All it has is a paragraph on a nightmare creature in the library. It doesn’t even have the name.” That book only had real information on Stryga, and she’s dead anyway. Or at least alive in pieces in the Prison. True immortals are hard to kill that way. 

_Will they put me there when they learn?_

“Fantastic,” Amren sighed. “I’ll check the Library, then. Care to join me, girl?”   
  


A pool of red, glistening bright around the screaming sacks of flesh writhing on the ground flashed through her mind. Feyre running, sacrificing herself _again_ , Cassian flying to her, so fast and so strong the stone cracked under his feet. Rhysand’s cruel hands as he gripped their exposed skulls and forced the Ravens to spill their secrets. 

“Not really.” 

There had to be something wrong with her if the _monster_ was fine, but the _place_ was too much. 

_Like calls to like._

* * *

_When this bar grows up, it wants to be a concert hall,_ Nesta thought as she strode into one of her favorite dives in Velaris. _I hope it never does._ She had been to the concert halls, and the wine cellars, even some of the clubs. They were exactly like the rest of the city. Pretty, perfect, and _nice._

It took some searching, but she found the dives that suited her tastes. Where the barkeeps didn’t smile at you when you ordered. Where your boots stuck to the floors because no one ever bothered to wash them. Where the music was wild and dark, sung by smokey crooners and experimental artists. 

This place was best as it was. 

A double of whiskey appeared in front of her before she even sat down in her usual stool. She’d been here quite a bit, and only ever ordered the same thing. Three doubles of whiskey to start, to get drunk, wine for the rest of the night to maintain it. 

She didn’t thank the male. He certainly didn’t stick around to receive it. That wasn’t what this place was for. 

“Good evening,” a female voice called from the stage behind her. Nesta turned in her seat, leaning back against the bar and took her in. The woman was large. Large in a way that was wrong for fae. She was too tall, too bulky. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was nearly 7 feet tall, Nesta would have guessed her to be a human man. The only “female” thing about her was her soft face and higher voice. The golden eyes with slitted pupils gave her away her fae-ness. 

She stood at the center of the stage, a band in formation behind her. Strings, horns, drums, there must have been another 10 members of her group. But with the lead singer’s height, she was hardly about to get lost in the crowd. More than that, there was something magnetic about her. Her large, tattooed arms, exposed by the crisp white sleeveless tunic, kept drawing Nesta’s eyes. The patterns interrupted, like the design had a stencil over it, preventing the lines from being properly connected. 

She stood up and called, “I’m Midaznyov. Y’all can call me Midi. We’re the Dragonband.” The audience rumbled a little bit at her name, but Nesta didn’t catch their words, not as the horns around her bellowed to life, or the mandolins twanged impatiently, and certainly not when she started singing. Or screaming, or both. 

The music - if you could even call it that - was rushed, frantic and wild. It rammed against the ear, begging for attention and assaulting you if you had the gall to ignore it. The audience came to life with it, losing themselves in it, giving into the violence of its tempo. Nesta watched as groups kicked, thrashed, and threw themselves to the music. It was barely dancing by society standards, but the untamed motion was alive in a way nothing else could ever be. 

Nesta ordered another drink and kept watching. 

She wouldn’t join. She knew she couldn’t move like that. Wasn’t capable of letting go like these Fae were. She just wanted to watch, wanted to be a voyeur on the untapped energy of the crowd. Later, when the night was darker and the music slower, she would work her way into the mass of people, feel the sway of bodies against hers, feel the hands of a stranger on her waist, and find someone to take her home. 

Until then she would listen and observe. She had to hand it to the band, there was something bitingly positive in their melody, even as the singer bellowed about the most horrible truths. Loneliness, pain, death, abandonment, and every other terrible experience life had to offer was summoned forward and then released out into the world with cathartic rejection.

Nesta laughed a little bit as she ordered her third whiskey. How could she sit in those nice little music halls and enjoy pretty tunes about love or longing? It was too gentle, too civilized for what she was now. 

But this, these lyrics and this desperation 

_When you could hardly breathe_

_You were wondering why you bothered._

Being good wasn’t the point. Being subtle wasn’t the point. She didn’t have pretty little emotions that could bare subtle little songs. She wanted this passionate cacophony to drown out the roaring in her head. There was a trail of death behind her and unfathomable nothingness in front of her. Subtly was for another life. For when she was a lady and could dance pretty waltzes. 

By the end of the third drink, the music had dropped its frantic tempo for something more smooth. It was still dark, dangerously edged, but it was quieter, a sensuality to its violence. And she had already made eyes with a pretty male. 

Ten minutes later his tongue was down her throat. 

Twenty minutes later she had him against a wall in the bathroom. His hands were strange on her body, a blend of every person she had taken and every person she fought like hell to shove off. He squeezed her breast and was Tomas Mandray, trying to take what he believed he was owed. His fingers fumbled at her clit, and he was the man who’d taken her maidenhead, asking again and again: _are you sure?_ He pressed his weight into her, shoving her into the corner wall as his cock pushed in, and he was the soldiers of Hybern, shoving to the ground to restrain him. He moaned in her ear as thrust in and out of her, and he was Cassian, warm and pliant under her fingers. 

Nesta grit her teeth and focused on the pleasant near-pain of his thrusts, meeting each one with greater speed and greater force. This nameless male was willing fuck her in the bathroom, but apparently wanted to be a _gentleman_ about it. _Nonsense._ She wanted it to hurt. She wanted every sensation edged with enough pain that she could accept the pleasure with it. She needed it. She needed overwhelming and too much, she needed it to silence the roars and screams and curses. 

And it worked. For a moment. 

Then she was left in the bathroom, cum leaking down her thigh and sweat on her brow. And the screams came back. 

_Clare’s in there! I can’t go, Clare’s -_

_Let her go! Please! Jenny! Please! Let her go!_

_Don’t lay your filthy hands on my daugh-_

_Crack_

_Like I taught you._

Nesta buttoned her dress and went for another drink - or ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I graduated from middle school 13 years ago, I need to stop letting ska fuel my writing. 
> 
> Mixed POV guys! Cassian and Nesta! (Because someone needs to move the plot forward while she's trying to drown herself in alcohol and sex)
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr or twitter at saphie3243


	3. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassian gets bad news in Illyria. Nesta talks to her sister.

Illyria always got colder first. Being tucked away in the mountains did that to a place. It also got colder than everywhere else. Well, everywhere else in the Fae Lands. Last year’s foray into the Human territories in the middle of winter had shown him how warm magic made even the heaviest snows. It was that chill that had set him off at their first dinner more than anything else. The thought of Feyre surviving alone in that joyless cold.

Windhaven was the first place he landed. On shorter trips, he’d winnow with Az or Rhys or Mor, but for these multi-day stays, flying in himself was just easier. It kept him out of Velaris longer, too. Something he’d never thought he’d want, but with Nesta there, doing Mother only knows what with whomever was handy...

Cassian shook the thoughts away. There was no point in worrying about her. She made it  _ very _ clear she didn’t want his worry. And he had other things to worry about, like the potential coup d’etat brewing in Illyria. 

Devlon was waiting for him when he landed, his usual entourage behind him. The camp-lord wasted no time before diving into business. Pleasantries were for the High Fae. 

“Skyward and Galekit have gone dark.”    
  


“Shit,” Cass hissed. “When was the last contact?” 

“Last week.” So the last report date, then. 

“Any search parties sent yet?”    
  


“Yes. We didn’t get their report two days ago, a scout went to check on them yesterday and informed us the camps are abandoned. A search party was dispatched shortly afterwards. No update.” 

“This makes 3 camps now, Devlon.” 

  
“I imagine Cliffside was their inspiration.”

“Skyward is close to Mistlike, they will probably follow shortly after,” the thought of not just one, but 4 Illyrian camps in open rebellion was not a soothing thought. “Any others at risk?” 

Devlon raised an eyebrow, “All of them.”    
  


Illyria wasn’t a proper state. Each camp was like its own country, more or less self-governing. The only thing that united them was the fact that they were  _ Illyrian. _ With exception to war or the Blood Rite, camps only had contact with each other for some meager trade practices and bastard-shuffling. After Rhys took the throne, they tried to govern Illyria more thoroughly, to change its backwards policies and beliefs. But these efforts were mostly unsuccessful, with one exception. The weekly communique had been adopted fairly well. It let each camp know the vague status of other camps without any problem having to reach a breaking point. 

Unfortunately that increased communication was now backfiring. The main Night Court forces during the war had been Illyrian. Most casualties were Illyrian. That would have been fine for other wars, other conflicts, and other enemies. But Hybern was different. For one, enough Illyrians would have gladly sided with him, given the chance. Hell, they  _ did _ side with him during Amaranthra’s reign. ruthless. The other, more immediate reason was the nature of the deaths. 

Those who fell to the Cauldron blast didn’t get heroes’ deaths. They didn’t get to face their opponent. The Illyrians got unceremoniously vaporized.  _ Only _ the Illyrians. 

Battles with more casualties than survivors weren't unheard of. It happens. Defeat happens. Pyrrhic victories happen. They just haven’t ever happened when every available soldier was on the damn field, watching as half of their men disappeared into dust. That alone was a bitter pill, but it was the truth of war. Some victories have a mighty cost. 

But it wasn’t Illyria’s victory. Amren might have saved them all, but her unleashing stole vengeance and glory from the soldiers who watched their friends and comrades die. It wasn’t even an Illyrian who defeated Hybern. No, the only Illyrian who even got close lost, only to be saved by a  _ witch. _

All in all, it was hard to say who was taking post-war reconstruction worse: Nesta or Illyria. 

* * *

The scouts filled Cassian in on everything they found at the abandoned camps, but second-hand information wasn’t enough. He’d visit them himself next, after his regular check-in here was complete. It wouldn’t take long, all he had left to do here was endure some more snide remarks from Devlon followed by a disappointing conversation with the lord’s mate. 

“No. We have no more jobs for anyone else, General,” Nonnie told him with her normal stern voice. Many years as the wife of the Camp-Lord and head of the Camp-mothers had given her an unusual spine for an Illyrian female. She had no problem speaking frankly to any male who approached her, including her general. “We aren’t at war anymore. There simply isn’t that much  _ to  _ do.” 

And with that he was back to asking her to once again help distribute fallen males’ pensions to the appropriate female. She agreed and dismissed herself. It wasn’t enough. There were still too many people without protection, and not enough merchants in Illyria for females to buy all the food and goods they needed.A pension wasn’t enough, they needed hunters, providers, real income. And there was nothing to give. 

Cassian sighed as he headed back to training grounds to meet his party and head out to Skyward. As he walked, an old crone called out to him. 

“Lord Cassian, good morning dear,” Valsa greeted him with a great grin. She carried a basket that clanked happily as she walked. 

“Good morning, Valsa,” he nodded to her. “Delivering potions?”

“Yes, just some wound salve for the trainees,” The old crone of a medic was the only person in the world who could call him that. She was still learning her craft when he was growing, already an old woman with a dead mate and a daughter to watch over, she was lucky to find her affinity with potions and medicine, even it if was so late in life. She had often practiced on the stubborn warrior-in-training. 

Valsa fell in step with him while their paths merged, “How is Nesta, dear?” She also had the distinction of taking a shine to the eldest Archeron during the war. 

“She’s fine,” he lied. 

Valsa clucked at him, “You should bring her back here soon. An honest day’s work does wonders to soothe the aches of war.” 

“I don’t know who would hate it more, Devlon or Nesta,” Cass shook his head. “Besides, Nonnie tells me there are no more jobs for females.” 

“You can’t put them in the same category. She’s capable of more than hard labor. The potions that girl could make…” Valsa tilted her head slightly, “You think she would hate it here?” 

“Illyria is a hard place, Valsa. Most high fae would not-”

“She is not high fae, my lord,” the old woman fixed him with a careful gaze. “She is not truly Fae, either. She is Made. She is more. I only knew her for a moment, but it seemed to me our hard life suited her. As she seemed to suit you.” She didn’t give him a chance to respond as they got to a fork in the road, “Ah, my destination is this way. Good day, General.” 

He watched the old woman leave, her wings held high behind her, her basket swinging delicately at her side. The camp-mothers enjoyed their gossip about the two of them during the war. He hadn’t realized it persisted. Sleeping in the same tent for a week straight would do that, he supposed. Sleeping sound, holding her close, breathing her in. It felt so right, so- 

_ “I thought the healers were already done with their work, how come you are still so sweaty?” He smirked, hoping cocky would hide the pride Nesta would no doubt resent him for. He held out a clean chemise for her, watching  _ very _ intently as she peeled the current one off.  _

_ “Valsa had me at the laundry vat all day,” she sat down on the stool near the cleaning buckets, picking up a rag and dipping it in the water. This was one hell of a game to play with his self-control. Later, he told himself. After the war. When there’s not a thousand Illyrians around to hear you.  _

_ “Stirring cloth is that tiring?” Keeping the conversation going was the best way to keep his ass in the bed and his hands to himself. If he focused on her words and not the rag she dragged across her arms, her stomach, her tits... Mother help him, those tits.  _

_ She turned her head over her shoulder, still slightly flushed from her labors. “You spend a day stirring and lifting a 50 gallon vat of boiling water and try not to get sweaty.” Her brows were knit. She was annoyed with him, but not angry. Cute wasn’t a word used to describe Nesta Archeron often, but at that moment, his [  _ _ ] _ _ was adorable.  _

Cassian shook his head again to dismiss the memories and aching emptiness that accompanied them. 

* * *

_ Eee hee hee hee You really did it. The Cauldron bound you and tore the binds asunder.  _

The blackness surrounded her, enveloping her being, lifting her from the mattress. Smooth, spiked, bones tickled along her back and legs.

_ Marvelous _ . 

“You called me a true witch. What is that? What does that mean?” Nesta spoke to the nothingness. She had too many questions to allow Bryaxis’s little show intimidate her. Its ivory claws stroked her cheek, put delicate pressure on her lips. Bryaxis had her in a lover’s lethal embrace. 

_ Did your little messenger friend not tell you?  _

“No.” 

_ Hee hee hee Of course not. She lost her power and now fears yours. _

“Amren has no reason to fear me,” Nesta argued. Claws held her other cheek as well, tilting her head back, exposing her neck. She felt the formless black brush along her pulse. 

_ Doesn’t she? Can you not feel it _ ? 

The darkness reached down, under her collar, up under her skirt. Against her filthy skin, blocking all sensation but Bryaxis and its tepid embrace. 

_ You could destroy them all. No being could stop you. _

Just when every inch of her was coated in darkness, it all receded, condensed. She floated back down as a child came to stand at her feet. Bryaxis’ new form was more complete than its Cassian impression. The eyes were still black pits of nothingness, but they at least had proper eyelids this time. The teeth were jagged, but the mouth was the correct size. It was dressed like a human boy, but the long raven hair falling down its back and the delicate bone structure confused things. On the whole, this being no looked no more than 8. 

Nesta pushed up to rest on her elbows, raising an eyebrow at Bryaxis’s new form. “Is this the result of your inspection? A human child?”    
  


It raised its arms, turning in a circle to show itself off. “An old fear, one that does not bother you anymore. I hope you do not mine my borrowing it.” Even its voice had solidified. A young voice, high pitched and bright, but its speech and manner too adult for the form. 

“My fear? A child?” 

“It is  _ your  _ fear. Do you have no recognition of it?” 

Nesta tilted her head, inspecting Bry’s new features in the moonlight. They looked like hers, like an Archeron, but not. The cheekbones belonged to her. But that nose, that jaw, that was a Mandray jaw. 

She huffed out a laugh. No, that particular dread had long left her nightmares. “Take it, it’s yours.” 

“Thank you,” Bry smiled at her. “If it helps, you never were going to have  _ human  _ children.” 

* * *

Cold water splashed over Nesta’s face, shocking her awake. 

“FUCK!” She yelled, but the unfeeling and unflappable barkeep just slammed the wooden bucket on the bar and pointed to the door. It was either very late or very early, but from the empty state of the bar it was clear she had fallen asleep and stayed that way until at least closing time. Something slid from her shoulders as jerked up to a seated position and wiped the water dripping into her eyes.

A red blanket fell to the filthy floor of the bar. She didn’t recognize it or its smell as she gathered it up. 

“Yours?” She asked, holding it out to him. He just kept pointing to the door, silent as ever. “Thanks, then,” she muttered, leaving it on the counter and peeling herself off of the bar stool. Her head ached and her neck was sore from sleeping hunched over all night, but she managed to shuffle, shivering, out the door. It was light outside, early but late enough that Velaris had already come to life, the noise endless in its movement. It wasn’t the first time Nesta had fallen asleep under a bar, but it was certainly the latest she’d ever been allowed to remain. Normally someone splashed her with water around dawn - if not sooner. 

She yawned. If she hadn’t fallen asleep at the bar, she’d still be in bed at her own apartment, or at a stranger’s. Between the headache, the sleep deprivation, and the sore joints, she was ready to just get home and collapse on her bed for another 4 to 12 hours. 

But then the shadows in the corner of her eye moved. 

“What do you want, Azriel?” she asked, still limping forward. 

The shadowsinger met her pace with so much ease she wanted to smack him. It wasn’t even impressive, it only seemed that way because she was so hungover. “Nice of Kindra to lend you a blanket.”    
  


She wanted to come up with a retort but her head rang too much, so she just repeated her question. “What do you want?”    
  


“Elain’s coming to see you today, she asked me to locate you first in case you weren’t home.” 

The headache got worse. 

“I’m not.” 

“I noticed,” Azriel was silent, his expression steady and implacable. She looked up at him, his perfect face was studying her, assessing. 

“What?” she practically snarled. It was too damn early for this nonsense. 

“I’m trying to figure out if you can take shadowstepping without barfing on me.” She could never figure out if he was joking or not, but either way he must have decided that she could take it as he extended a ruined hand. For a moment she debated ignoring him, but the road was long, her body was sore, and she could already feel her soaked dress beginning to freeze. She huffed and smacked her hand into his, letting the shadows envelope them both. In a blink, they were outside her apartment door. 

She didn’t thank him. Gods know he was probably just trying to make sure she actually got home in time to see Elain. The shadows started to rise around him again. “Nesta.” she turned her attention to him for just a moment. It seemed like he had something more to say, but all that came out was, “she’ll be here in about an hour.” And then he left. 

An hour was not enough time to brave a proper bath, so Nesta settled for the buckets this time. She shimmied out of her wet clothes and set them to hang over the bathtub’s curtain rod. The water from the tap wasn’t warm, but at least it wasn’t cold either. Sitting on the edge of the tub, she brought a wet rag up the inside of her thigh and sighed at the dried semen caked to her leg. She dipped the rag back in the soapy water and scrubbed over her area with more vigor. 

_ Fucking hell.  _ Her head still hurt, she was going to throw up again. What she really needed was another bottle of wine and a proper soak where she didn’t have to stand. But no. Elain needed to  _ see  _ her. And she couldn’t very well see Elain with cum dried all over her legs. Not that it would matter. Not that Elain would look any more pleased to see her. 

Elain could barely be in the same room as her now. She tried to hide it, probably even from herself, but Nesta knew. She saw it on her face. For 22 years, her little sister only ever looked at her with love and affection, no matter how pissed off she was. For 12 years, Nesta did everything she could to keep that look alive, to bring it back when it faltered. The hope of seeing that look again kept her going during those long weeks in the House of Wind. And it worked. Her sister came back… only to uncover the worst secrets buried in the deepest chambers of Nesta’s soul. Now Elain was alive, sane, and hadn’t looked at her with any sort of real affection in months. Nesta doubted she ever would again. The Cauldron and Hybern decided to take that from her, too.

Nesta made sure to have at least one glass before her hour was up. 

* * *

Elain stood in Nesta’s apartment with her nose wrinkled, “If you need, Nuala or Cerridwen can come clean-” 

“What do you want, Elain?” Nesta leaned against the counter, not really in the mood for this conversation again. Her and Feyre were so fucking predictable. They come here once a month with veiled requests to clean or move back to the townhouse, respectively.

Nesta watched her sister take a breath, swallow her anger. Of the three of them, Feyre was always the easiest to piss off, but Lady Archeron had passed on her nasty temper to all of her daughters. You just had to know what buttons to push. For Elain… well as long as you keep her from what she wants you can pretty much guarantee you’ll both cause and win the fight. 

A sigh and an unnaturally impassive tone hit her. “Are you coming to dinner tonight?” 

Nesta glanced over at the unopened envelope sitting on the kitchen counter.  _ So that’s what that was.  _ “I wasn’t planning on it, no.” 

“Feyre wants you there.”  _ Not even trying to hide that you don’t? _ “And with Solstice in a couple days. It might be easier for you if you come tonight-” 

Nesta scoffed, “Oh no way in hell am I going to  _ that. _ ” 

Elain’s nostrils flared as her limited patience grew thin, but she stopped herself from yelling. “It’s not even a religious thing, Nesta. It’s just a time for the whole family to be together.” 

“Then you’ll have plenty of company without me.” 

“So you’re just going to keep blowing off every invitation to every dinner and every holiday?” Elain’s patience finally snapped entirely, letting the anger out. She wasn’t yelling, no. Elain doesn’t do that anymore, but she does let a certain intensity in her voice. 

_ I should have had another glass.  _ Nesta made a show of checking her nails, “That’s the plan, yeah.” 

“You’re not going to try, are you?” More contempt seeped through than she might have intended, but it was there. A little hypocritical, if Nesta was being honest. 

But Nesta was in the mood for another kind of honesty today. She shrugged, “Try to what, exactly?  _ Garden _ ? Or should I start baking?” Nesta let a mean laugh break into a cruel smile.

Elain’s eyes narrowed, “You’re really going to judge  _ my  _ decisions?” 

“Those are  _ your  _ decisions? My bad, I thought they were Feyre’s.” 

“Enough,” her sister’s voice was hard, unnaturally and perfectly so. Angry but controlled, perfectly tempered. Honestly, Graysen was right when he said she was the wife you wanted in a war. Did those idiots in that townhouse know that? Or were they still convinced she was just a happy fool? “No one is saying you have to start baking or even smiling. But you  _ are _ a member of this family. Come to dinner and act like it.” 

Does Elain know how much her face looks like their father's when she's angry? “No.”

“Why?” 

“Because we aren’t kids anymore. You all have your life, I have mine. I see no reason to pretend otherwise.”    
  


Hurt, anger, and shock danced around her eyes, slipping lose the calm exterior she tried to hold onto. “You really hate us that much?” 

“No,” she said truthfully, “I don’t care enough for that.” 

Elain slammed the door on her way out. 

Nesta made sure to lock every latch before collapsing against it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Writing is hard.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up at twitter and tumblr at Saphie3243


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